


to make you stay (i'd do anything)

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Ankoku Ryuu to Hikari no Ken | Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: (we all know they were fuckin), Bath Sex, Canon Compliant, Codependency, Dick Riding but like In a Top Kinda Way, Emotional Crises, Explicit Consent, F/F, Graphic Depictions of Feelings, Knighthood, Prententiousness, Reunion Sex, Riding, Sad Handjobs, Smangst, Smut and Angst, Very vague mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 05:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: After Palla's return from Valentia, her reunion with her queen is hardly the celebration she'd fantasized about, on long nights alone across the ocean. Instead, guilt weighs heavy on her chest for not being by Minerva's side when she was overthrown, even if it would've meant her death.But Palla needs to be needed, and she hates herself for it.





	to make you stay (i'd do anything)

**Author's Note:**

> minerva bottoms and that's on that

Steam curls off the water's surface, gently rippling where the streams from the faucets land. It's a private bathing chamber, separated from the rest of the bathhouse with an oiled canvas curtain, and the stone around the rim is etched with runes that keep the water hot. That's one good thing about baths in Khaedin, Palla supposes— guaranteed warmth without having someone stoke the fires below. All that magic is clearly good for _something_.  
  
Palla ties the curtain shut, even though the bathhouse is empty. The private tub is big enough for two people, but Minerva is easily a person and a half. She shuts off the faucets when the water is at the drain ring below the rim of the tub, and the surface laps just below Minerva's breast. Gingerly, she rests her arms on the rim. Her back is to Palla, but it's leaned against the gentle slope of the tub, so Palla can't see below her shoulderblades.  
  
Her hair's a mess— Palla's already brushed out most of the sand and grime, but it's still gone stringy and overgrown with neglect. Washing it will be the first order of business. Palla sits down behind Minerva with a smaller basin, a ceramic pitcher, and a bottle of shampoo. The floor is thankfully dry.  
  
Palla feels like she should be talking. Minerva's tired breaths, the unusual thinness of her arms, the way she leans like it's taking enough energy to hold her head upright tell her she probably shouldn't, so she doesn't.  
  
Minerva speaks instead. "How was Valentia?" she asks Palla. Her voice is low and stern; commanding when she raises it and even when she doesn't. There's a hoarseness to it, the remnants of a nick she's lucky to have survived, that makes Palla's heart ache.  
  
Palla bites her tongue. She tilts Minerva's head back and pours the water over it, the first of many that she'll need to get all the way through.  
  
"Good," she says tightly. Her fingers comb through Minerva's hair. "We found Est. Fought in another war. You know how it is."  
  
"Indeed," Minerva says. She hesitates. The water from the pitcher sloshes into the basin in front of Palla. "I'm sorry."  
  
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Palla says.  
  
"No, Palla," Minerva insists.  
  
"Stop trying to apologize," Palla says, her hands clenching into fists around the pitcher. They tremble, and a drop of spillover drips off the lip of the pitcher and plops into the basin. "Please, Commander."  
  
"You saw another war," Minerva says. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, deep brown and sorrowful in their shape and in the emotions behind them. "And here you are, on your third."  
  
Palla forces her hands to still. She sets her mouth in a very firm line and keeps working her fingers through Minerva's hair. Sand comes out with every rinse and Palla halfheartedly curses Iote for passing his genes for thick, voluminous hair down to his grandchildren.  
  
"I'm a soldier," she says tightly. "It's what I do."  
  
Minerva shifts slightly, her head leaning heavily on where Palla's propped it up and Palla doesn't blame her. Her body shows signs of her imprisonment— the gauntness of her cheeks, the raw skin where the shackles rubbed, the gashes on her back that are stable but still have yet to heal, the bruises flowering black and blue underneath. It makes Palla's blood boil. There's no reason anyone could ever have to treat another person this cruelly. She doesn't really believe in fate or divine beings (being a soldier only leaves enough room for faith or family, not both), but if something exists that predetermines the events of mortals' lives, Palla would very much like to speak with whoever decided that Minerva should suffer as much as she has.  
  
"I suppose it's for the best," Minerva admits. "None of you would have survived the coup. A war, at least, there's a chance."  
  
Palla snorts halfheartedly, pouring the dirty water into another drain and filling her bowl with clean water. "Some choice there," she mutters. "Potential death overseas in a war, or certain death at your side in a violent dethronement?"  
  
Minerva hums. "Well, very few of us get that choice," she says. She shifts, holding up her hand. With her free hand and a lump in her throat, Palla takes it. Minerva pulls it close to her cheek and shuts her eyes, and breathes, slow and deep.  
  
"You were injured in the last battle," she says. "I saw you holding your arm."  
  
Palla glances to the gash on her upper arm, freshly healed with a little bit of magic. "I've had worse."  
  
"I don't like seeing you hurt," Minerva says. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Considering that you were just broken out of torture-prison, I should probably be asking _you_ that," Palla replies tightly. "Commander, please, be selfish for once in your life." She bites at her lip, focusing on working clean water through Minerva's thick red hair. As expected, even with all the grime out, her hair is in abysmal shape. It's a good thing Palla came prepared.  
  
Minerva sighs, her elbows resting on the edge of the tub, and if it weren't for the scars on her skin and the knife in arm's reach, she would look like any other queen, being bathed and tended to by her handmaiden. Her eyes are closed, but Palla would be a fool to think she's at ease; there's a furrow in her brow and a set in her lips that only sleep can erase. Palla knows better than anyone the heavy burden that she carries— and knows better than anyone what it means that Minerva is willing to let Palla ease the load, where she can. In an ideal world, they would both be free and unburdened, but that world is so alien to Palla that she can hardly think of it.  
  
"Every time you lift your lance," Minerva murmurs. "I worry it'll be the last time."  
  
"Try not to think about it," Palla says. "That's how I've gotten this far."  
  
"Is it unreasonable," Minerva says. "To imagine a Macedon where you don't have to fight at all? To imagine a Macedon where victory is not built upon the backs of our children? To imagine a Macedon of a free people, living lives that are their own, as Iote deigned? Macedon was a nation of freed slaves, and yet here we are, shackled to a king's military ambitions." Her hand tightens around Palla's. They're big, as is the rest of her. Palla's not a small woman, but her hands are dwarfed in Minerva's.  
  
"Is it unreasonable," Minerva whispers, holding Palla's hand to her cheek. "To imagine a world where I don't have to worry so about losing you?"  
  
Palla feels a lump in her throat. "Commander," she says.  
  
"Minerva," Minerva murmurs. "Please. I've missed hearing my name on your lips."  
  
"Minerva," Palla repeats. She sighs, letting her shoulders droop. She leans forward and cradles Minerva's head, pressing a kiss to her crown. Such a gesture means very little on its own, but Palla would be foolish to think that it means little now, after all they've said, after all they've done.  
  
Minerva reaches back and tangles her fingers in Palla's hair. "I missed you," she says. "The knowledge that you and your sisters weren't caught up in this chaos is the only thing that got me through the year."  
  
Palla feels a lump in her throat. "Minerva…"  
  
Minerva shuts her eyes. "Please, Palla," she murmurs. "Just let me know you're here."  
  
"I'm here," Palla says, bowing her head until their foreheads are touching. "As long as you need me."  
  
Minerva breathes, slow and deep. She's quiet. What Palla doesn't realize, really, is that she wants to hear Minerva's voice, too; that she thought of Minerva the whole time she was in Valentia, that what filled her mind late at night were thoughts of a kiss on the Macedon battlements, and that she had rehearsed in her head how she was going to suggest that they follow that up and address how they were going to handle the feelings underneath now that they've surfaced and simmered, only for them all to shatter like porcelain on stone when she heard of the coup and Minerva's imprisonment.  
  
Palla swallows hard. "I thought about you in Valentia," she says. "I kept wondering if you were alright. I kept thinking to myself that if you died, all I've ever fought for wouldn't matter anymore. It's not true, and I feel horrible for saying so, but." She shakes her head. "I don't know what I would do if you'd died."  
  
"The earth would still turn," Minerva whispers. "The sun would still rise. The wind would still blow."  
  
"I know," Palla whispers back.  
  
"I don't plan on dying," Minerva says. "But should I die, the world would move on without me. As should you."  
  
_I would have nothing to fight for if you were gone_ , Palla thinks. "Macedon would lose its queen."  
  
Minerva shakes her head. "Macedon lost its queen before I even took the throne. I was never cut out to be a ruler, Palla. I am a Dragoon, a general, a representative of Macedon's military force, the attacking arm of the crown. I can command troops like breathing, but making decisions for an entire country is… beyond what I can do."  
  
She's right, and Palla doesn't want to admit it. But the truth is that Minerva was never cut out to be a queen; she's every bit the royal that her brother was, and she's an excellent general and advisor and a peerless warrior, but she was never cut out to be the one that has to make the hard decisions, the one responsible for the weight of an entire country on her shoulders. Minerva is a protector, a guardian, a bulwark between danger and the defenseless, but she does it with a sword and shield, not from a throne.  
  
So Palla stays quiet and sits back up, pushing her fingers through Minerva's hair and working the shampoo through it. When she takes care of it, Minerva— like all of Iote's descendants— has beautiful hair; brilliant scarlet, thick and voluminous like a lion's mane, but unexpectedly soft. Palla's one of the few who's ever been granted permission to touch it. She's no barber, but she's cut Catria's and Est's hair since she could hold a blade, and Minerva never complains. But then, Palla doesn't think she'd ever heard Minerva seriously complain about anything.  
  
"What will become of Macedon?" Palla asks.  
  
"I expect Prince Marth and Empress Nyna will take care of it, once the war is over," Minerva says. "The citizens of Macedon are good people. I won't have them suffer."  
  
"Even with how Macedon has treated you?" Palla says.  
  
"I've killed many innocents, and left their loved ones to live and grieve," Minerva replies. "No more. When this war is over, I am going to put Hauteclere and Iote's Shield back in a glass case and hand them over to the state, and that's where they'll stay. When this war is over, I never want to fight again."  
  
Palla wets her lips. "And what of the Whitewings? Of my sisters and me?"  
  
"Wherever you please," Minerva says, with a small shrug. "You needn't fight for me any longer. You needn't bear my burdens— nor Macedon's, if that's what you desire."  
  
Palla hadn't realized it, but her hands have curled into fists. She forces them to relax, and she holds Minerva's head on her lap. She grasps Minerva's hand in both of hers and holds tight, holds close. It feels as if Minerva might slip right through her hands at any moment.  
  
"Minerva," she murmurs. "Minerva, we have nothing to return to. We don't have a home, or family, or lives waiting for us that we put on hold for Macedon. I cannot speak for my sisters, but I…" she shakes her head. "When I told you, those years ago, that our true home is the sky around you, I meant it with every fiber of my being. My home is where _you_ are, throne or no throne."  
  
Her voice breaks. She breathes past the prickling in her eyes and the hitch in her breath. She clings tighter, presses her forehead harder, clinging to the last thing she has to devote herself to. After all, what is a knight without her liege?  
  
"Don't ask me to leave you," she whispers. "I can't. Not again."  
  
Slowly, Minerva reaches up and touches Palla's cheek. "Then we shan't speak of such things," she says. "I'm here now."  
  
"Are you?" Palla murmurs.  
  
"Come closer and see for yourself," Minerva murmurs back.  
  
Palla leans down and kisses her, slow and long, every second a reminder to herself that Minerva is here, that she's in no danger of finding herself without direction or purpose. Beneath it, though, there's hunger, the desire to dive into what she had before now that she has it again and nearly lost it. Minerva's hand reaches back and finds her hair, Minerva's fingers tracing the curve of her ear, over her jawbone, to the back of her neck. Palla shivers.  
  
She swallows and pulls back. "Lean forward," she says. "Let me wash your back."  
  
"I can wash myself," Minerva says.  
  
"No, not yet," Palla insists. "You're not healed. Father Wrys said specifically to take care to avoid agitating the skin, and frankly, he doesn't trust you to do that."  
  
"I'll be careful," Minerva says.  
  
"All due respect, my Queen," Palla replies, letting a lilt of teasing wiggle its way into her voice. "But I think you ought to leave this to me. I am, after all, your faithful right-hand."  
  
Minerva smiles, weary though it is. "You won't get very far from back there," she says. "You would get better access from down here."  
  
"You know," Palla says. "You could just _ask_ me to join you in the bath, and I would say yes."  
  
"Then, join me?" Minerva asks, sounding not like a queen but like a schoolgirl asking her girlfriend if they can maybe, sort of, hold hands a little.  
  
Palla nods. But she gives Minerva another kiss before she pulls away, pulling off her tunic, her trousers, her smalls. She leaves it all dumped in a heap on the bathing chamber floor and she leaves herself bare before Minerva, though she cannot pretend this is the first time. Minerva's injured herself before and needed a tenderer touch and a less painful reach; Palla's sisters are too young for it to be appropriate (not for lack of trying, on Catria's part), so it was always Palla who took charge of this job.  
  
And so Palla doesn't think anything of it, because they're both adults and more to the point _she_ is an adult and can do her job without thinking about Minerva's pillowy bosom and toned buttocks or the flawless sculpt of her biceps or how the callouses on her fingers would feel caressing Palla's thighs or how her abdominals make a trail that could lead Palla's kisses down to—  
  
Palla cuts herself off there, ignoring the flush in her ears, and sinks into the bathwater. She's an adult. She's _working_.  
  
It's hot, but not so hot she recoils. There's two tiers to it, and the deepest part is up to Palla's waist. She ties her hair up behind her head so it won't get in the way. She feels Minerva's gaze, but it doesn't bother her. She moves to the side of the bath where she set the bathing things and kneels on the ledge so she can start to scoop and pour water onto Minerva's back.  
  
"Tell me if it hurts," Palla murmurs.  
  
"It never does," Minerva says. "I've had worse."  
  
"You know what I mean," Palla replies. "You're still injured, even if it's all stable. I need to know if something I do starts to reopen any of these."  
  
"Point taken," Minerva admits. "In that case, it does hurt. It hurts quite a lot." She pauses. "It's almost as if I was just broken out of torture-prison."  
  
Palla snorts out a humorless laugh, simply because it's either laugh or cry. "Minerva, please."  
  
"Alright," Minerva promises. "I'll tell you."  
  
Palla hums in satisfaction, pouring the washing oil into her hands and rubbing them together until they're coated. "I'm holding you to that, you know. If I have to haul our asses down to the infirmary while naked, it'll be your fault."  
  
"Wouldn't that be a sight," Minerva hums.  
  
"I don't think Father Wrys needs to see your cock at this point in time," Palla deadpans.  
  
"That is true."  
  
Minerva grimaces when Palla's hands come to rest on her back, when they start to rub, gently, the washing oil into her healing skin. Father Wrys gave her a specific blend, made for the tender skin of newborns, but now it services the mottled bruises and pink scars covering Minerva's back. Palla does her best to keep her touches light and her hands gentle.  
  
"I thought of you, too," Minerva says. "The coup came not long after you left. The knowledge that the insurgents couldn't get to you or your sisters or Maria is what kept me from giving up. The kiss we shared played over and over in my memory. It kept me sane when I was left alone in the darkness. When I felt the lowest, I'd cling to the memory of times you've combed my hair or touched my face. Little things. Silly things. But it was the little things that I craved most."  
  
Palla swallows. "Yes, I survived," she says. "For all the good it did you. If I'd been by your side, as a knight _should_ be, then—"  
  
"Then you would've died, too," Minerva cuts her off. "I know you, Palla, I know your sisters. They would have had to go through you to get to me."  
  
"That's my job," Palla says. "I'm a knight, Minerva. I'm _your_ knight."  
  
"I know, but you're more than that," Minerva insists. "And not just to me. You're a comrade-in-arms, a friend, a sister. You're the one I trust most, the one I trust to help bear my burdens."  
  
Palla shakes her head. "Those other things are— they won't last forever. The war will end and the league will scatter. Friends will grow and move on. My sisters—" her voice breaks. "They're no longer little girls that need my protection, my guidance. When the war ends, Catria and Est are going to pursue their own dreams and find their own places in the world. They won't need me anymore."  
  
She feels tears slip out from behind her eyes. She bows her head, rests her forehead against Minerva's backbone. "My home," she whispers. "Is the sky around you, Minerva. It's the only place I know will be there when the war ends. Don't ask me to leave. I've already done it once, and I nearly lost you."  
  
"You didn't lose me," Minerva murmurs.  
  
"But we both know how close it came to that," Palla replies. "I don't know who I would be if I weren't your knight."  
  
Minerva shifts, the water sloshing as she moves, slowly, leaving the spot on Palla's forehead cold where she once was. But Minerva replaces that spot with the warmth of her lips, cradles Palla's hands in her own. Palla's chest aches.  
  
"You don't need to stand by my side as my knight forever, Palla," Minerva whispers, pressing her forehead to Palla's. "Lay your lance down. Stand by my side as my friend."  
  
Palla kisses her, all desperation and longing and fear and relief mingled into one. Minerva leans back and Palla leans in, her arms around Minerva's neck, her knees on either side of Minerva's thigh, the bathwater sloshing and smacking against the tiles as she moves. And then Minerva's hands are on her waist, her touch light as if she's afraid of breaking Palla if she holds tighter, and they're close, close, tangled in an embrace steeped in both emotional and literal nakedness, and Palla feels like if she doesn't get as close as she possibly can right this very second then circumstance is going to tear her away again, and this time it's not going to bring them back together.  
  
Heat burns in Palla's core, pressing up against her stomach like a stone. She feels Minerva's arousal against her thigh. Any other time, any other context, any other setting, perhaps they'd be embarrassed, and jump apart— but not here. Not with Palla's throat aching with tears unshed, when all she can think about is how she could've lost half of who she is in an instant.  
  
"Palla," Minerva murmurs. Her arms tighten, just a bit. Palla clings as if she'll crumble to dust if she lets go, and she wants Minerva's touch on her skin. Her hands. Her lips.  
  
"Hold me closer," Palla murmurs back. "I don't want to let you go. I can't."  
  
"You…" Minerva trails off. Her face is nearly as red as her hair, and even if Palla weren't basically sitting on her lap, she'd be lying if she tried to blame it on the hot bathwater. "I… we…"  
  
Palla kisses her again. "Stop talking," she says when they pull apart. It doesn't register to her that she's just attempted to give an order to her queen.  
  
Minerva does.  
  
The fire in her core burns, burns hot as Minerva's kisses, all flushed lips and fingers through her hair. Minerva's hand is on the back of her head, and her touch is tender, but trembling, restrained.  
  
The water sloshes as their bodies move. She feels Minerva under her, between her thighs. It's nothing Palla hasn't seen before, but now it's different. She knows she's not thinking straight, but in the moment, with Minerva beneath her and her hands on her face, Palla wants her. Palla wants _all_ of her.  
  
"We should," Minerva mumbles. "I should, ah… take care of…"  
  
"Let me," Palla says. "I'm right here."  
  
"But it's— I'm—"  
  
"I know," Palla cuts her off. "Don't try to tell me what I'm capable of. I want you."  
  
They kiss again. When Palla pulls back, Minerva's eyes are half-lidded, sweat on her brow and red in her cheeks.  
  
"Then," she says hoarsely. She bites her lip like it's hard for her to get it out— it's cute, Palla thinks, when she's shy. But Palla doesn't throw her a line. She waits, though every heart-pounding second she's not touching her is agony, for Minerva to say it herself.  
  
She swallows. Then she takes a breath, and looks at Palla. "Please?"  
  
And Palla smiles, and does exactly that.  
  
Palla's hand finds its way down the tone of Minerva's body— over her breast, down the bare expanse of her core muscles, tracing the path down from her navel to the main event— the shaft, achingly hard, pressing against Palla's thigh but dutifully waiting for Palla to permit it. She runs her hand along the length and hears Minerva suck in a breath. The water ripples with her movement.  
  
"How is this?" Palla asks.  
  
Minerva shudders. "It— yes," she manages. "I'm—"  
  
"Don't you dare say you're sorry," Palla cuts her off. "And don't be afraid to tell me to stop, either."  
  
Minerva swallows and nods. Her face is flushed, but Palla watches close to make sure understandable nervousness doesn't become genuine fear. Her hand rubs the length, up and down, her touch just as gentle as it was when she was working the washing oil into the scarred tissue on her back.  
  
If this were another time, another place, Palla would relish it— watching her commander, her queen, come undone beneath her, being the thing that makes her forget about the heavy weight on her shoulders and the aching scars on her heart, would be enough for her. Minerva's every gasp and shudder and sound that's almost a whimper, but only almost, is a reward. Palla is selfish for thinking like this, but it pleases the self-indulgent part of her to know that she is the only thing that can make Minerva's walls melt like ice in the summer, and that, really, Minerva needs her to feel this release.  
  
But tonight, it's not enough. Tonight is both a night of agonizing worry and unimaginable relief, a night where Palla, despite Minerva being right there, can only think of how close she could've come to losing her. Tonight is when Palla can only feel satisfied knowing that it's real. Tonight, Palla is selfish. Tonight, Palla wants.  
  
Minerva sucks in a gasp. "There," she manages. "Right there, please— please—"  
  
Palla's thumb rubs that same spot, and Minerva, already gripping the edge of the bath, shudders, back arching, thighs tensing. It thrills Palla to not only see but feel her muscles move, to know that she is the cause.  
  
"Minerva," Palla murmurs, leaning in and kissing her neck. The hand around her shaft does not stop. "Touch me."  
  
Water sloshes. Her hands move to Palla's waist. Steam and sweat cool on her skin. Palla's lips are cold without Minerva's on them.  
  
"Kiss me," Palla murmurs. Minerva does. Palla shifts closer. There's no room for her arm— she gives up, lowers herself until she can feel Minerva's length press into the burning heat between her legs. Minerva shudders, and it feels as if it's taking all of her power not to beg.  
  
"You're so warm," she gasps out. "I… please."  
  
"I will," Palla promises. They're closer now than they ever were before— limbs intertwined, breaths mingling, not a single stitch of clothing getting in the way. Palla swears she can feel the blood rushing in Minerva's veins. She can definitely feel her heartbeat.  
  
Her heart is beating. She is there, and she is alive, and Palla will never leave her side again.  
  
"Here, let's…" The water sloshes, slapping the tiled edges of the bath as Palla helps Minerva stand, butt only for a second, just until she can sit on the edge of the bath instead of under the water. She shivers, even in the steamy air, but Palla knows she'll be warm from the inside out soon.  
  
Minerva hisses at the movement, gritting her teeth through the pain. She always does— Palla knows that it must be excruciating, if even she is admitting to feeling it. In all the years Palla's known her, Minerva has never been the type to react much to pain and hurt. It's not difficult to know why. Palla will admit that she's the same way.  
  
Minerva scoots herself back, just a bit. And then she waits, lip between her teeth, for Palla to make her move. What she wants is clear— tell me what you want me to do.  
  
Palla touches her shaft again, rubbing gently. Minerva trembles, even as Palla moves her hands to her waist. Palla kisses her jaw, her chin, her lips.  
  
"Is this alright?" she murmurs.  
  
Minerva nods.  
  
"Tell me if you don't like it," she says. She leans over and picks up the bottle of washing oil. It's not technically made for this purpose, but it's not going to hurt them, and Palla would prefer not to attempt without it. She lets it coat her hands and then Minerva's length. There's a lot of it— she'll need it.  
  
Minerva nods again. "Will you?" she asks.  
  
"Don't worry about me." Palla kisses her, gentle and slow, a moment of calm amidst the chaos and desperation. "I know what I'm doing."  
  
"Well, good," Minerva mutters. "Because I certainly don't."  
  
"Just be here," Palla tells her, taking her cheeks in her hands. "Knowing that you're with me is more than enough."  
  
Minerva kisses her. Her lips are forgiving and gentle, like the rest of her, even if she herself doesn't see it. Her hands are on Palla's thighs. It's welcoming and anchoring as Palla slowly, carefully, lowers herself down.  
  
Palla is under no impressions that it would be easy, but even so, it's difficult— she's slow, careful, cautious. It's very tempting to try to pick up the pace a bit, but it's not worth the distress it'd cause Minerva. Some things, you just have to be patient for.  
  
It's as close as any could possibly get, and yet, Palla isn't satisfied.  
  
Her hands grip just a little tighter. Palla wants them to bruise. Minerva leans down to kiss at her breast, and Palla pushes her hands through her hair. She's done so many times, but this time— _this_ time, it's different. This time there are no thoughts of propriety. This time it's purely selfishness when Palla kisses her, moans into her skin, feels herself stretch from the inside. It doesn't hurt— she'll be sore in the morning, though.  
  
She feels Minerva tense, her breath hitch, and Palla combs her hands through her hair. "Is this alright?" she asks.  
  
Minerva nods. "Yes. Please."  
  
"Does it feel good?" she asks.  
  
"So good. You're warm." Minerva kisses her shoulder, draws her arms around Palla like the world will pull them apart. "Don't go."  
  
"I won't," Palla promises. "Never again."  
  
"Never again," Minerva murmurs. She rests her head on Palla's shoulder. Palla slows her motion to breathe, kiss her head. It sounds, to Palla, far too much like Minerva had expected to die in that prison cell.  
  
She knows Minerva better than anyone else, and so she knows that Minerva would've happily died there if she knew Palla was safe. Minerva is horribly selfless, and Palla sometimes wishes that Minerva didn't love her so. Maybe then, maybe, she'd pay herself more mind.  
  
"Minerva," Palla murmurs.  
  
"Palla," Minerva murmurs back.  
  
"Don't let me go," Palla says. She feels Minerva tighten her hold. Palla presses her forehead to Minerva's, her fingers tangled in scarlet fluff, and feels pain in her chest while she feels burning further down, her body impatiently waiting for her to chase the ache away. She moves slowly, against the strain, until she's down as far as she can manage. (She tells herself she'll work up to the whole thing.)  
  
"Don't go," she says. "Please." It's a refrain in Palla's mind— _don't go. Don't go_. And Palla would never dream of it, and she hates, spitefully, that a part of her thrills at being told such. It's a verbal reminder that Minerva needs her, and Palla knows it's not healthy, she _knows_ , and yet— she needs to be needed, as much as she hates this fact about herself.  
  
But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter when Minerva's coming undone beneath her, when Palla's treated to sweet sounds of her whimpers and moans, when Palla feels every bit of her over every inch of her body, pressed together like it's the last time, when Palla hears her name on Minerva's lips— _Palla, Palla, please, gods—_  
  
_Please_ , she hears. _Please. I need you._  
  
Palla comes and will regret how it happened when her head clears.  
  
Minerva gasps, tenses. Her embrace grows tight. She trembles. She moans. Palla feels what's about to happen before it happens, and she does nothing to stop it— Minerva comes, and Palla feels her flooding her inside, still trembling and tender from the force of her peak. It's hot and sticky and Palla will hate cleaning up later, but in the moment, she doesn't care.  
  
Steam and sweat cool on her skin. Palla feels Minerva's head on her breast. Her muscles feel heavy. She wants to lie down and sleep for three days. Now that, she could never regret.  
  
She touches Minerva's face. "Are you alright?" she asks. "How was it?"  
  
Minerva nods, taking in a breath and blinking the stars from her eyes. "It— yes. It was wonderful. You felt wonderful."  
  
"I do try," Palla replies. "Come on. We made a bit of a mess."  
  
"I certainly hope we weren't expected anywhere after this," Minerva mumbles.  
  
Palla shakes her head. "I doubt it. Even if we were, it doesn't matter."  
  
"Do you really mean that?" Minerva asks, as Palla slowly shifts herself from Minerva's lap. She bites her lip against the aftershocks that come as she pulls herself off. Seed drips from between her legs. It aches, but it's a better ache than the one in her chest.  
  
Palla shrugs. "I can't imagine why I wouldn't."  
  
Minerva nods admittance. "Fair enough," she says. She hesitates. "I suppose we ought to finish here and go to bed."  
  
"It shouldn't take long," Palla says. "How's your back?"  
  
"It's fine." Minerva shakes her head. "Are you going to leave, once you've seen to me?"  
  
Palla almost wants to say yes, if you no longer have need of me, but she catches herself.  
  
"Do you want me to?" she asks in reply.  
  
Minerva shakes her head. "Stay," she says, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Please."  
  
And so, Palla does.


End file.
